Death belongs to God, young man. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. His face was white. Maybe others that I do not know about. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her.
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